


Sugar, Sugar

by rsconne



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Bad Puns, Clexa Halloween Week, F/F, Fluff, Halloween Costumes, Halloween party games, Pining, Sexual Tension, Smut, not the costume contest you were expecting, shots, so many bad puns it's not even punny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 03:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12547464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rsconne/pseuds/rsconne
Summary: Clexa Halloween Week Day 4: Octavia and Lincoln host a Halloween costume party with a twist.Or, how long can Clarke and Lexa play games before they crack?





	Sugar, Sugar

**Author's Note:**

> *title from The Archies

“Are you Australian?  Because you meet all of my koala-fications.”

Clarke burst out laughing.  “Raven, what the hell?”  She pulled out of Raven’s apartment complex and drove them toward Octavia and Lincoln’s house.

“I’m practicing, Clarke.  You must be a banana, because I find you a peeling.”  Raven leered at her from the passenger seat.  Clarke continued laughing helplessly.  “If you were a triangle, you’d be acute one.”

“Those are _so_ bad, Rae,” Clarke snorted.  “What do you mean, ‘you’re practicing?’”

Raven held up a largish, U-shaped piece of heavy duty cardboard.  It was painted red and silver and had garish yellow marshmallow peeps glued all over it.  “My costume.  I’m a chick magnet.”  She batted her eyes and gave Clarke a cheesy grin.

Clarke groaned.  “That might be even worse than the pick-up lines.”

“Well, that’s kind of the point—the contest is for _worst_ Halloween costume.  Although I could’ve just gone as myself,” she said, gesturing down at her body, “cause I’m _already_ a chick magnet,” she said smugly. 

Clarke rolled her eyes.  “Sure you are.”

Raven swatted at her in mock affront.  “So cold, Griffin.  What’s your costume, anyway?” she asked, eyeing Clarke with interest. 

“Nope, not telling.  Not until we get there.”

Raven made a face.  “Tease.  So who all’s coming tonight?” she asked, changing the subject. 

“The usual crew.  O and Lincoln, obviously, Lexa, Bell, Monty and Jasper, maybe Murphy,” she named off a few more of their friends and acquaintances.

“Anya?” Raven asked casually.

Clarke smothered a smile.  “What about Anya?” she asked innocently.

Raven tossed her head and huffed.  “Is she coming?”

Clarke smirked.  “You tell me.”  Raven reddened and swatted at her for real this time.  Clarke yelped and relented.  “Ok, ok!  Yeah, Lexa said she’d be there.”  She threw a sidelong glance at her passenger.  “Jesus, Rae, for such a ‘chick magnet,’ you sure have a hard time attracting the one you really want.  When are you going to quit flirting with her and make an actual move?”

Raven shifted irritably in her seat and muttered something under her breath about _like poles_.  “Like you have any room to talk, Griffin,” she retorted.  “When are you gonna get your head out of your ass and go for it with Lexa?  You guys have been friends for years.”

Clarke chewed her lip pensively.  “I want to, Rae,” she admitted.  “But it’s complicated.  Every time I finally work up the nerve, somehow the moment’s never right.  It hasn’t been that long since she and Costia broke up, I don’t want to be her rebound.”

Raven scoffed.  “Please.  They were never serious.  I think she only went out with her in the first place because you were dating Niylah.” 

Clarke shot her a sharp, inquisitive look.  “What are you talking about?  Niylah was just…casual.  Surely she must have known that.”

Raven shrugged.  “All I know is that the timing works.  And then when you stopped seeing Niylah, _poof—_ ” she made an explosive gesture with her hands “—suddenly Costia is history, too.  And don’t call me Shirley.”  Clarke made a withering face at her and Raven grinned.  “Besides, you don’t see the way she looks at you when she thinks you can’t see her.”

“How’s that?” Clarke asked curiously.

“All gooey and doe-eyed, but then sometimes she gets this intensity, like she’s starving and you’re the only morsel of food to be had.”  Raven shook her head in wonderment.  She commented under her breath, so quietly Clarke barely heard her, “Wish Anya looked at _me_ that way.” 

Raven changed the subject and they speculated on their friends’ Halloween costumes for the rest of the short drive, but Clarke couldn’t get Raven’s words out of her mind.  _Tonight_ , she resolved.  _No more procrastination.  Tonight, I’ll go for it._  

  *********

 Clarke and Raven shouldered through the small throng of guests on Octavia and Lincoln’s front porch and walked through the open front door.  Clarke was scanning the room to see who was already there—adamantly telling herself that she was _not_ looking for Lexa, even though she absolutely was—when she heard a voice call out their names.  “About time you guys got here!”  Octavia greeted them each with a hug.  She was wearing a beret with black pants and a striped sailor’s shirt.  She had white pancake make-up covering her face and one eye was blotted out with a giant black star. 

“What are you supposed to be?” Clarke asked.  Octavia stepped back and posed with her tongue out, waiting for them to make the connection.  Clarke slapped her forehead.  “Oh my God.  French Kiss?” 

Octavia laughed and nodded.  She looked curiously at Clarke’s attire: jeans and a white button-down shirt, a black tie loosely knotted around her neck, a small messenger bag on one arm and a bomber jacket slung over her shoulder.  “What about you?” 

Clarke dodged the question again.  “You’ll see.” 

Octavia raised her eyebrows and turned to Raven instead, who had a wide grin waiting for her.  “If you were a Transformer, you’d be Optimus Fine.”  She held up her cardboard magnet, now looped on a length of string around her neck.

Octavia snickered.  “That costume’s just an excuse for you to trot out a bunch of awful pick-up lines, and you know it.”  Raven shrugged with a smile, but didn’t deny it.  “Oh, before I forget—” Octavia picked up a couple of index cards from a console table and handed them each one.  “Scorecards,” she explained.  “Put down your top three worst costumes.  We’ll tally up the votes and announce the ‘winners’ around 11 or so.” 

She noticed the offerings of beer and vodka in their hands and motioned them through to the kitchen.  As tended to happen at parties, people were already congregated there, mixing drinks and hovering around the snacks.  Clarke and Raven handed over their bounty and grabbed drinks, and then began circulating among their friends.  Clarke said hello to Lincoln’s friend Echo, who had on an adult-sized onesie with a waffle print on it and a black, gold, and red Belgian flag draped around her shoulders.  One of Lincoln’s coworkers—she thought his name was Roan—walked past on his way to the back porch and Clarke saw the shine of nickels glued all over the back of his white t-shirt. 

She spotted Monty across the room, refilling his snack plate, and she and Raven made their way over to him.  He was wearing a white toque and a bib apron with a giant capital letter ‘F’ and lowercase ‘e’ pinned to the front.  Raven hooted with laughter, but Clarke just looked confused.  “Get it, Clarke?  Fe?” Raven cracked up again at Clarke’s continued confusion. 

Monty bit down on a chip and explained with his mouth full.  “Iron Chef,” he said proudly, and Clarke wondered if she’d be groaning all night. 

They hung out chatting with him for a little while.  Clarke was still evasive about her costume and Raven and Monty chortled gleefully at some of Raven’s more choice pick-up lines (“Are you from Star Wars?  Cause yodalicious”).  Clarke only had one ear tuned to the conversation.  Her eyes kept looking to the doorway, and she’d stopped pretending that she wasn’t watching for one particular person.  If she’d been more observant, she might have noticed that Raven’s eyes kept flicking in the same direction.  Just as Monty wandered off to take a plate of food to Jasper, who’d been banished to the backyard (“He kept knocking stuff over in that T-Rex suit.”), the objects of their attentions—and affections—finally arrived.

Lincoln led the way into the kitchen with Anya and Lexa trailing behind him.  Clarke frowned in puzzlement at his costume—a plastic barrel for a top, painted to resemble a PBR can, with black pants and black patent leather shoes—but her gaze quickly drifted to the women behind him.  Anya strode in wearing black jeans and a tight black top, a shot glass on a lanyard around her neck, and a black leather jacket, all sharp angles and dramatic atmosphere.  Clarke felt Raven suck in a breath beside her, but then she lost all awareness of her friend’s plight because there was _Lexa_.  Ripped jeans molded to her long, lean legs and the close-fitting men’s white v-neck undershirt she wore was so thin Clarke could easily make out the outline of her bra beneath it.  Scuffed black motorcycle boots and a battered black leather jacket so well-worn that it conformed to her lithe frame completed the ensemble.  Her impossibly-perfect hair tumbled softly over one shoulder.  Her eyes met Clarke’s in a flash of green.  A fond smile ghosted across her lips, quickly replaced by a knowing smirk.  Clarke felt that smirk right between her legs, and sweet baby Jesus, it was going to be a _long_ evening.

Unlike Clarke, Raven at least had retained her capacity for speech.  “So, what are you guys’ costumes?” she asked nonchalantly.  She took a quick, steadying gulp of her drink and pretended that she wasn’t mentally undressing Anya. 

Anya’s eyes hadn’t left Raven’s and she sent her a penetrating stare, as if she could see right through her bravado.  She scooped up a bottle of Jack from the counter and filled the shot glass around her neck.  She tossed it back in one go and licked her lips, still watching Raven.  “I’m a shot in the dark,” she announced.  “You?”

Raven stepped up to her and leaned in until her cardboard magnet brushed Anya’s jacket.  “I’m looking for treasure.  Can I look around your chest?” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.  Anya rolled her eyes, but a genuine smile momentarily broke through her tough façade. 

After the laughter at Raven’s antics subsided, they all looked expectantly at Lexa.  She slipped off her leather jacket (and holy shit, her _arms_ , and how Clarke ached to feel that smooth muscle under her hands and tightening around her body) to reveal that her t-shirt had words and phrases like “l’etat c’est moi,” “this above all: to thine own self be true,”  and “the reports of my death are greatly exaggerated” neatly printed all over it in black Sharpie.  She did a slow pirouette and said simply, “I’m plagiarism.” 

Clarke snorted, a combination of disgust and amusement.  “Holy shit, that’s bad.”

Lexa quirked an eyebrow at her and crossed her arms.  “Oh yeah?  Let’s see what you’ve got, Griffin,” she said coolly. 

“Yeah, Clarke, why so mysterious?”  Raven added.  To Anya and Lexa, “She wouldn’t tell anyone what her costume was until you got here.” 

Clarke pulled out a pair of knock-off black Wayfarers and slipped them on.  She strutted up to Lexa and slid them down her nose to look at her over the top of them.  “I’m Huey Lewis,” she said with a shit-eating grin.  She cocked her hip to one side and flipped open her messenger bag to produce a newspaper.  “And this is the News.”

Lexa closed her eyes.  Her nostrils flared with the effort to hold back a laugh.  The rest of the group had no such scruples.  Raven cackled.  “That’s _terrible_ , Griff.”

Clarke kept grinning, not taking her eyes off of Lexa.  “I know.  I’ve been waiting for _years_ to have a chance to pull it off.”  She finally looked away when Lincoln burst into a couple of quick dance steps, his shoes clacking on the kitchen tile.

“I’m beer on tap,” he said, waving jazz hands at them. 

Once their laughter subsided they migrated to the bar area for drinks and refills and slowly broke off into smaller groups.  Raven and Anya wandered outside, where some people lounged around a firepit.  Clarke and Lexa moved into the living room.  The small space was crowded and Clarke pressed closer to Lexa under the pretext of being able to converse without shouting.  Based on Lexa’s small smile, she perceived Clarke’s true motive, but clearly didn’t mind.  If anything, she angled her body to entice Clarke in, until the light honeysuckle aroma of her bodywash surrounded them and Clarke’s mind clouded with images of lathering up all that sleek, golden skin.  She zoned out staring at Lexa’s plump lips, wondering what flavor of lip balm made them so shiny and inviting and imagining how she might find out, until she realized Lexa had asked her a question. 

“Unh!  Yeah, sorry—no, I haven’t seen Gustus.”  Lexa just smirked at her, as if she knew exactly where Clarke’s thoughts had gone.  Clarke’s face heated under the weight of her stare and she changed the subject.  “So—‘plagiarism?’  _Really_?  Where did _that_ come from?”

Lexa lifted a shoulder.  “It came to me while I was daydreaming in my Intellectual Property Law class,” she admitted. 

Clarke clutched her chest and pretended to be taken aback.  “The great Lexa Woods, daydreaming in class?  _Never_.”  She giggled and Lexa swatted her playfully.  The giggle faded on her lips as Lexa’s hand lingered and slowly traced down her arm.  She shivered as Lexa edged nearer and her fingers toyed with the cuff of Clarke’s sleeve.  Her thumb brushed over the pulse point on the inside of Clarke’s wrist and Clarke wondered if Lexa could feel how wildly her heart was racing.  She lost herself in the deep green intensity of Lexa’s eyes and she started to lean in…until a clap on her shoulder made her start and shattered the moment. 

“Clarke!”  Octavia’s brother Bellamy shouted a greeting in her ear, and as much as she considered him a friend, she had never hated him so much as in that moment.  Lexa disengaged and pulled back, although her eyes remained locked on Clarke.  Clarke looked back at her with apology in her own eyes, then visibly gathered herself and turned to face Bellamy, plastering a bright smile on her face. 

“Hi, Bell,” she said with false enthusiasm.  She took in the single-serving cereal boxes glued to his t-shirt, which was liberally garnished with fake blood.  “Cereal killer, right?”

Bellamy beamed.  “Yup.  Great party, huh?  Oh, hey, Lexa,” he added, finally noticing her standing behind Clarke.  Lexa inclined her head in greeting, still a little out of sorts at the interruption.  Bellamy was oblivious to her annoyance.  “Hey, is Murphy here yet?”

Lexa spoke up before Clarke could.  “I just saw him heading for the back yard.  He’s in the t-shirt with all the name tags all over it.  Identity theft, I think.”  She pointed.  “If you hurry, you can catch him,” she added helpfully, not-so-subtly sending him on his way.

“Cool, thanks.”  He moved off and Clarke sighed with relief.  She turned back to Lexa with jangling nerves, hoping to rekindle the moment.  From the color on Lexa’s cheeks and the way her eyes dipped to Clarke’s lips, she had the same thought.  Lexa opened her mouth to say something, but before she could get the words out, Octavia broke in with a loud announcement about the pumpkin carving contest.  Lexa’s face fell in frustration and Clarke distinctly heard her swear under her breath.  Clarke smothered a smile at the calm, cool, collected Commander losing her composure at being thwarted.  She filed the thought away and unsuccessfully tried to prevent her brain from helpfully supplying images of Lexa losing her composure in far different and more satisfying ways.  By the time she’d managed to push the delightfully wicked thoughts from her mind, Octavia was tugging her out to the front porch by the arm.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” Lexa said, looking as if she needed a moment to clear her own head.  “I’m, uh, going to get another drink.  Want anything?” she said to Clarke.

 _Fuck. Yes._ “Yeah, you know what I want,” Clarke replied with a significant look. 

Lexa’s eyes darkened and she inhaled abruptly.  “Beer it is, then,” she choked out, before virtually fleeing to the kitchen. 

Octavia had been too absorbed in doling out the pumpkins to pay attention to their byplay, but she gave Clarke a shrewd look when she handed Clarke hers.  “Might want to take that jacket off, Clarke, your face is kind of red.”  If anything, Clarke flushed further, but she bent her head to avoid Octavia’s notice and slipped the jacket off, because after all, it _was_ rather warm and why didn’t anyone else feel overheated? 

Lexa returned with two fresh beers just in time to find Clarke, her shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, pulling a cordless dremel out of her messenger bag.  “A _dremel_ , Clarke?  Are you shitting me?  That’s cheating!” she protested.  She sat down beside her and passed her the drink. 

Clarke clinked their bottles together in thanks and took a long pull of the cold liquid.  She answered smugly, “Rules?  Oh, there are no rules here.  Remind me who it was that told me, ‘If you fail to prepare, then prepare to fail.’”

Lexa gave her a dirty look.  “Mockery is not the product of a strong mind,” she said with mock severity.

“All’s fair in love and pumpkin carving,” Clarke replied sweetly.  Her eyes widened when she realized what she’d said and she risked a glance at Lexa. 

Lexa looked equally stunned: she’d frozen with her beer bottle halfway to her lips.  She cleared her throat and set the bottle down to take up her carving knife.  “Right.  Well.  _Some_ of us are good enough with our hands that we don’t need power tools,” she replied nonchalantly, keeping her eyes fixed resolutely on her pumpkin and working out a plan of attack.  

 Clarke shook her head in disbelief.  “Oh, you’re so going down,” she hissed at Lexa under her breath.

 "You’d like that, wouldn’t you,” Lexa murmured back, _sotto voce_.  Clarke’s jaw dropped and she whipped her head to look at Lexa.  She would have sworn she’d misheard her, but for the telltale spots of color on Lexa’s cheeks.  She squirmed and tried to will away the flutter in her belly. 

“I know what you’re doing,” she whispered back, “you’re just trying to get in my head!” 

Lexa shot back out of the corner of her mouth, “No, but maybe your pants.”  She gave Clarke a dark, utterly filthy look and dropped her gaze back to her pumpkin.

Clarke’s hand shook so badly she almost dropped the dremel.  She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on her breathing to calm down.  “You are so going to pay for that,” she said conversationally.

“Oh, I hope so,” Lexa answered mildly.  

And then Octavia gave the word and they began.  Ten minutes later, she called out, “Knives down, hands up!” and she and her hand-picked team of judges came up to inspect. 

Clarke leaned over to peek at Lexa’s.  She giggled.  “Did you do a ninja turtle?”

Lexa looked offended.  “It’s a raccoon, Clarke!”

Clarke wiped the smile off her face and nodded seriously.  “Right.”

“See, there’s his mask!  And his whiskers!”

“Yeah, um…very realistic,” she managed.  Lexa huffed.  “Aw, Lex, I was just teasing.”  Clarke bumped her shoulder against Lexa’s and gave her an apologetic smile.  Lexa was still pouting, but from the way she was struggling to keep the smile off her face, Clarke could tell she wasn’t upset.  Her eyes lit on Lexa’s poked out bottom lip and she unconsciously licked her own lips as she imagined biting the plump flesh and soothing it with her tongue….

“Clarke!”  Lexa nudged her.  “You won!” 

“Oh!  Right!”  Clarke turned away from Lexa’s knowing gaze with a blush and accepted her “prize” from Octavia: a bag of orange and black peanut butter Mary Jane candy.  She blanched.

“Worst Halloween candy for worst Halloween party contest prizes,” Octavia proclaimed gleefully.  Clarke rolled her eyes.  She scrambled to her feet and then helped Lexa up.  They collected their empty beers and started to head back into the house for fresh ones.  “Don’t go too far,” Octavia called out as the various contestants started to scatter.  “We’re starting the bobbing for apples contest out back in a few minutes!”

“Ugh, Octavia,” Clarke whined.  “Why do we have to have games?” 

“Because it’s Halloween and games are fun, dammit!”   Octavia barked.  “Backyard in ten, Griffin!” she ordered, and marched off to organize the event.

Clarke groaned and banged her head gently against Lexa’s shoulder.  Lexa laughed softly.  “Come on, Clarke, time for me to get my redemption.” 

Clarke lifted her head.  “Oh yeah?  What makes you so sure of that?” she challenged.

Lexa lowered her voice so that only Clarke could hear and replied silkily, “Because I’m very good with my mouth.”  Her lips curved upward as she watched Clarke’s brain short circuit. 

Clarke mouthed, “ _Fuck._ ” She turned abruptly to go in the house.  Lexa followed right on her heels.  Clarke shuddered at the feel of her warm hand skimming over her hip and brushing her ass, and she fervently wished Octavia and her fucking games straight to hell because there were far better fucking games she’d rather be playing. 

The party had clearly kicked into high gear by the time they passed back through the kitchen.  Anya, in her capacity as a shot in the dark, was distributing shots.  “Lexa!  Clarke!” she called them over and pressed Dixie cups into their hands.  “Bottoms up,” she said with a wink, and turned back to the table. 

Lexa sniffed it carefully and shrugged.  “Kraken.  At least it’s good stuff.”  She tossed hers back and waited for Clarke to do the same.  They were about to head outside when Raven raised the stakes.

Anya started to pour her a tequila shot, but Raven shook her head and pushed the cup away with one hand.  She stepped into Anya’s personal space and said in a low voice, “Uh uh.  I want a _body_ shot in the dark.”  She boldly held Anya’s gaze.  A few whistles and catcalls went up from partygoers in the kitchen, and Clarke grabbed Lexa’s hand and held her back so they could see how it played out. 

Anya’s lips curved in an almost feral smile.  “Thought you’d never ask,” she replied in an equally low voice.  She ditched her jacket without backing away and started to pull up the hem of her shirt before thinking better of it.  She cocked her head to one side and raised her arms over her head.  “A little help?”

Raven’s eyes lit with a voracious gleam.  She eased Anya’s shirt up and over her head, purposely dragging her fingers over her ribcage and the lace-covered sides of her breasts.  Anya shook her hair out and perched her hip on the edge of the kitchen table and carefully scooted herself onto the table.  She laid back, balancing herself on her elbows.  Raven bent over her and maintained eye contact as she licked a deliberate stripe just above Anya’s cleavage and sprinkled salt on the wet skin.  Anya started to reach for a shot glass, but Raven shook her head no and smirked.  She gently pushed Anya flat on her back and handed her a lime wedge to place between her lips.  She picked up the bottle and Anya’s eyebrows shot up as she realized what Raven intended.  Raven poured a healthy amount of tequila into the well of Anya’s navel.  Anya exhaled through her nose as the cool liquid hit her heated skin.  Raven climbed onto the table and knelt astride Anya’s hips.  She raised a questioning eyebrow and Anya replied with a wordless nod.  Then, with her hands behind her back, Raven slowly licked the salt with the flat of her tongue, sucked the liquor off Anya’s body, making her belly quiver, and bent her mouth to Anya’s waiting lips to take the lime.  Unable to use her arms for balance, she simply lowered her whole body to press against Anya’s from hips to breasts, and if her lips stayed on Anya’s for a few extra beats, neither of them complained. 

More whistles and applause went up from the onlookers in the kitchen, but with the show over, their attention quickly turned elsewhere.  Raven took her sweet time levering herself off of Anya’s body.  Once she got to her feet, she extended a hand to help Anya sit up and handed her back her shirt.  As Anya put it back on, Raven leaned in and husked so that only Anya could hear, “Is your name Winter?  Cause you’ll be coming soon.”  The two women shared a look of pure sin.

Clarke felt a warm pull on her hand and she looked down to find that she still had Lexa’s hand in hers.  Rather than let go, she gave it a warm squeeze and let Lexa lead her to the back yard.  After the heated scene in the kitchen, the cooler air outside was bracingly refreshing.  Clarke casually threaded her fingers between Lexa’s and let her thumb stroke lightly on the outside of her hand while they waited for Lincoln to finish the apple bobbing preparations.  She looked at Lexa and indicated the kitchen with a quick jerk of her head.  “If Anya was your ride, you might need to find another way home.” 

Lexa looked her straight in the eye.  “Oh, I’m working on it,” she said quietly, and Clarke came _thisclose_ to chucking the apples and dragging Lexa into the nearest dark, secluded corner.  But just then Octavia came around to herd them into heats for the contest, and Clarke once again managed to tamp down her increasingly dirty thoughts of what she’d do if she had Lexa all to herself.  Or so she thought.

Clarke hadn’t bobbed for apples since she was a kid, and she’d forgotten how…messy…it could get.  Lincoln had set up several different tubs of water with ten or so apples in each tub.  They split into two groups and ran several different timed heats; the various winners moved on to the next round until there were only two finalists left.  (And there could be only one.)  To her surprise—especially not having done it in years—Clarke beat out her competition…and found herself head-to-head with Lexa.  It took all of her concentration to focus on the contest and not stare as Lexa dropped to her knees at the tub across from her.  Lexa winked at her and Clarke rolled her eyes and glared down at her tub of apples, determined not to let the heat between her legs distract from her objective.  Octavia gave the signal and Clarke threw herself into her tub with more gusto than she had in any of the previous rounds, seizing apples with her teeth and tossing them aside, gasping for breath in between each score, and sloshing water everywhere. 

When Octavia called time, Clarke sat back on her haunches, completely soaked, and not just from the water.  She looked across at Lexa and all her blood promptly raced southward to throb at her core.  Lexa was still on her knees, her lips shiny and wet, the water still sluicing down her chin.  Like Clarke, her shoulders and chest heaved as she struggled to regain her breath.  And Clarke knew that her button-down shirt was sticking to her own body like a second skin, but Lexa’s thin white t-shirt was so drenched as to be transparent and Jesus fucking _wept,_ her nipples were right _there_ , their dark points jutting up proudly through the flimsy, wet fabric of her shirt and bra and Clarke couldn’t look away, didn’t want to look away.  Lexa’s dark eyes locked on Clarke’s in a heated staredown, and Clarke knew she was thinking much the same thing. 

She only managed to tear her gaze away when their friends pulled them to their feet.  Lincoln tallied the apples and proclaimed Lexa the winner.  Lexa threw her arms in the air in a victory salute and Clarke actually groaned aloud.  She was about to make a beeline for her, but Octavia beat her to the punch.  She whispered something in Lexa’s ear.  Lexa glanced down at herself and blushed, and then reddened further when she looked up and caught Clarke’s eye.  She reluctantly allowed Octavia to lead her into the house. 

Clarke huffed in frustration.  She took in the state of her own attire and headed for the bathroom, slinging off her sopping tie as she went.  The downstairs bathroom was occupied, so Clarke went upstairs, knowing that Octavia and Lincoln wouldn’t mind her venturing into their private space.  She went into the hall bathroom and carelessly pushed the door shut.  She slowly unbuttoned her shirt.  The buttons were difficult to work through the wet material, and she grew more annoyed with each one.  Finally getting the last one undone, she struggled out of the garment and laid it aside.  She was toweling herself dry with a guest towel when the door suddenly burst open.  She clutched the towel to her chest. 

“Oh shit!  Sorry, I didn’t know you were in here,” Lexa blurted.  She had a dry shirt in her hand.  She turned as if to leave, but her feet didn’t seem to want to move and her eyes latched onto Clarke’s wet breasts. 

Clarke dropped the towel and was on Lexa in two steps.  She grabbed her by the shirtfront and pulled her into the bathroom.  Lexa’s lips met hers halfway as they crashed together in a deep, searching kiss, all tongues and saliva and no pretense.  “Door,” Clarke grunted against her mouth, and Lexa detached long enough to blindly shove the door shut before diving back into the welcoming heat of Clarke’s mouth.  Clarke’s hands tangled in Lexa’s hair and Lexa’s arms found their way around Clarke’s back and their kiss went on and on, until their lungs ached.  They broke the kiss at last, both of them sucking in deep breaths, not just from the need for oxygen.  “I’ve wanted to do that all night,” Lexa confessed. 

Clarke’s face burned and she said, “I’ve wanted to do that for a lot longer than that.”  She kissed a trail of soft bites down Lexa’s throat. 

Lexa hissed at the sensation and stammered, “Ok, me too—but how come you never said anything?”

Clarke traced her tongue along the delicate ridge of her collarbone and spoke into her skin, “Because I was stupid.  So…fucking…stupid.”  Lexa pulled her back up for another kiss.  Clarke let herself fall into it, and nothing had ever felt so right before, like well-oiled tumblers clicking into place and finally unlocking her most secret vault.  She didn’t want to stop touching Lexa, wasn’t sure if she _could_ stop touching her, because she needed her like she needed breath. 

Clarke pawed at the hem of Lexa’s wet t-shirt and they stopped kissing long enough for Lexa to lift her arms and let Clarke peel it off.  Clarke’s mouth worked lower, painting kisses over the swell of Lexa’s breasts until she reached the stiff buds that had captivated her attention earlier.  Without even pausing, she wrapped her lips around one nipple and suckled and lapped at it through the damp lace, then stripped off the wet fabric and did the same for the other now-bared one.  Lexa moaned at the sensation of Clarke’s hot, wet mouth on her chilled flesh and she threaded her hands in her hair and arched against her as Clarke shifted between her breasts, tormenting them each in turn with her hands and mouth. 

Lexa’s hands dipped down Clarke’s back and made short work of her bra as well.  She chased Clarke’s lips for another messy, full-throated kiss and skimmed her hands over, around Clarke’s heavier breasts, and _oh fuck,_ the soft, tender caresses of Lexa’s slender fingers upon some of her most delicate flesh soon had Clarke reeling and digging her nails into Lexa’s back. 

Lexa inched Clarke backward until her ass bumped against the edge of the vanity.  She hadn’t even noticed Lexa popping the button on her jeans and releasing her zipper until her hands were spreading Clarke’s fly open.  Clarke’s hands froze and Lexa stopped.  A tiny frown creased her forehead and she pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of Clarke’s mouth.  “Did I go too far?” Lexa asked, worried. 

“No, it’s not that,” Clarke assured her breathlessly.  “Not at _all_ , I want you to touch me.”  She let her hand slide to Lexa’s ass and squeezed for emphasis.  “But we probably shouldn’t here,” she said regretfully, casting an eye around the bathroom.  She wanted to have Lexa spread open, without any inhibitions, although with Lexa’s hand _so close_ to where Clarke needed it most, she was having trouble remembering why exactly this was a bad idea, and she captured Lexa’s lips again in another searing kiss.

“I know, you’re right,” Lexa moaned into Clarke’s mouth.  She flushed, a little embarrassed at just how carried away she’d gotten, but not sorry in the least.  “We should stop,” she said, her eyes closed, nuzzling against the velvety skin of Clarke’s neck.  She slipped a hand down the back of Clarke’s jeans to cup her bare ass.  Her other drifted between Clarke’s legs and slowly stroked her over the soaked cotton of her panties and Clarke thought that this wasn’t a bad idea, but maybe the best idea ever. 

Lexa caught herself and started to pull away.  “Right, ok, stopping,” she said dazedly.  And then Clarke whined and dragged Lexa’s hand back to where she craved her, skin on slick, heated skin this time, and murmured hoarsely against Lexa’s lips as she kissed her frantically, “Fuck it—I don’t wanna—don’t stop, Lex.”  She helped Lexa shove her jeans and underwear down her thighs, just enough, and finally Lexa was _there_ , her long fingers circling Clarke’s throbbing bud and stroking inside, driving her closer and closer to the precipice, until she came with a racking shudder and a cry that was almost a sob that Lexa stopped with her mouth. 

When Clarke finally came down, she cradled Lexa’s face with both hands and kissed her tenderly, sweeping her thumbs reverently over Lexa’s closed eyes.  “God, Lexa, that was—I needed that.  I needed _you_.  _Need_ you.”  _Still.  Always._   Her heart clenched at the luminosity of Lexa’s vivid green eyes drinking her in as if she was the rarest of precious creatures.  She kissed her again more urgently, tears pricking at the corners of her own eyes, needing Lexa to understand that _she_ was Clarke’s most precious creature.

A sudden sharp knock on the door startled them and they stopped kissing, barely daring to breath.  It was Octavia.  “Hey guys, really glad you got past the eyefucking,” she said dryly through the door.  Clarke could hear the eyeroll in her voice.  “But maybe hurry it up and finish, cause we’re going to award the costume prize in about ten minutes.”   

Clarke and Lexa looked at each other with flaming, sheepish faces.  _Busted_.  They helped each other get dressed and make their hair presentable.  Just before they went out to face the music, Lexa stopped with her hand on the doorknob and kissed Clarke again.

“Clarke?” 

“Mmhmm?”

“Take me home.” 

Clarke hummed and gave her a brilliant smile.  “With pleasure.”

Lexa bent her head and kissed Clarke again, costume awards be damned.  “Well yes, Clarke, that’s exactly what I had in mind.” 

**Author's Note:**

> What's your vote for worst costume?


End file.
